Page 353 of Rage

Noonebut fuckingme.

Rhett was my reason for living. Like a cloud in a nice, clear blue sky. He was there and I was there. We were there…together. And that's all that mattered to us. Tears freely fall down my sodden cheeks. I wipe my face with the sleeve of my hoodie. The cuffs are slightly tattered, complete with stringy bits and holes created by those freaky closet moths.

I don’t linger around the cold concrete for long. My plan begins today. I can’t fuck it all up on the first day, with the first stage.

The walk is long, and I thank whoever the fuck is upstairs for allowing me to get back into shape this year. I’ll need the stamina for what’s coming.

Chapter Six

Katherine

Things would be so much simpler if I was above legal drinking age. At least then I could walk into the bar that looms ahead. But, no, I’m stuck at nineteen. I spend several nights a week walking past this bar, just wishing I could waltz in and down a few amaretto sours to drown out the constant static that lives in my head. Between the static and the reverbating pusles that I’ve categorized as some level of trauma from watching Rhett be shot over and over.

I don’t have a deep desire to drink, but god damn, do I wish I could drown out those sounds. The vivid memories of his blood coating my skin. The visceral reaction his torso had to my hands pressing so firmly against it as it fought to keep his breath steady.

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never move on, never love someone the same way as I did Rhett. I have to continuously remind myself that I deserve some type of love. I’ve accepted that I’ll probably never encounter a love like Rhett’s, something that started as a brisk friendship that evolved over years of close encounters and just plain old interaction.

It’s fine with me.

I’ve had the great love of my life.

I was so lucky it held me in its warm embrace so young. But it does make it that much more difficult because now I have to spend the rest of my shitty existence remembering it and feeling the emotions from the catastrophic fallout.

A fallout that should have never fucking happened in the first place.

Hearing the gunman shout at Rhett, spewing hatred from the Sandman, has fueled my anger just as much as Rhett’s physical death. Who was the man hanging halfway out that window? The man who pulled the trigger and riddled Rhett’s beautiful body with bullet holes.

Whoeverthatman was, he’s going to fucking pay if I have anything to do with it.

Leaving the sidewalk where I last saw Rhett alive and breathing is laborious, but I manage to scrape myself off the concrete and stand to my full height. I’m on the shorter side, so it isn’t much. Nonetheless, I stand tall and begin walking downtown.

I know he’s right where I want him.

Alone.

In the basement of the building. The garage section where fancy ass mafia dudes roam freely with guns strapped to their waistbands inconspicuously.

I’m doing the same.

The small handgun I saved up for has been burning a hole in the back of my pants ever since I left my shitty apartment this morning. I bought it under the table and have practiced shooting and following targets. I’ve taken it completely apart, cleaned it, and loaded it. I’ve rebuilt it several times over.I’m more comfortable handling it than making a fresh dinner at home. Icould take it apart with my eyes closed at this point, but I won’t since there’s the possibility I could shoot myself in the foot. Metaphorically and physically. I’m not going to take that chance today.

The shadows along the edges of the buildings surrounding me grow longer and richer the further I walk. Before long, the streetlights flare and I know it’s getting down to the wire. I need to find that son of a bitch.

I keep walking.

After an hour of walking and looping through and around buildings, I sigh a breath of relief when I see the establishment around the corner. Taking a deep breath and double-checking my positioning, I pick up my pace and quickly arrive at the entry door to the run-down, hole-in-the-wall, pizzeria.

A mafia-owned pizzeria.

I swallow glass as I enter, noting the way a dozen or more heads flit in my direction on instinct alone. They can’t hear me over their own raucous laughter.

I ignore them all as their beady eyes follow me to the front counter. An older woman, probably in her sixties, glances up from her sudoku game book and does a double take on my face. “Good evening, miss. How can I help you?” Her voice is motherly, holding the same rasp as every grandmother before her, like some kind of ancestral chant.

Noting the lack of menus, I tell her the only thing that comes to mind. “Just a medium pepperoni pizza, please.”Don’t be rude to the grandmother of the fucking mafia, I remind myself. Mafia women aren’t to be fucked with. She’s probably killed more people than all the jackasses in here combined.

She doesn’t write down my order. She stays still as a rock, staring me down to my socks. I feel the seam running across the tops of my toes and scrunch them subconsciously, trying to realign the seam so it doesn’t piss me off.

“Will that be for dine-in or to-go?” Her sweet voice is riddled with hoarseness. She definitely smokes. The rasp of her voice is like a gentle caress to my ears. She’s lived.

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